


Mutual Surrender

by DistantStorm



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Emotional Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, but with a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: What it says on the tin. Kallus and Zeb, intimacy and feelings and surrendering.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 12
Kudos: 127





	Mutual Surrender

Zeb is _tactile_.

Maybe it's based on instinct, on cultural nuances Kallus himself doesn't yet know. Maybe it's simply a matter of personal preference. Zeb wants to touch him always. A hand at the small of his back, the knock of arms or legs against each other when they sit side by side. One long, muscular arm around his shoulders when they're headed in the same direction.

Zeb is _impatient_.

Large palms come up, thick, clawed fingers knead and drag along the backs of his thighs. He tries not to grind his hips downward, tries to wait, but Zeb adjusts the pressure he's applying to the back of Kallus's legs, the heel of his powerful hands pushing down where his legs meet the curve of his ass and they're pressing together like flint and steel. Kallus arches his back at the feeling and they're flush from ribs to thighs and he sees sparks fly behind his eyelids. 

Zeb is _encouraging_.

It is… embarrassing to be so free of inhibition, to lose himself in the base needs dictated by anatomy. Zeb knows himself, and likewise, Zeb knows him, too. Knows when he's stuck in his own head and needs to be pulled apart piece by piece, or, like now, when he needs his control to be ripped from him, needs to be reminded that there is no need to wait. He can have this - they can have this - whenever they'd like. He doesn't have to wait. And always, always, Zeb wrestles that Coruscanti control away until Kallus remembers: he doesn't _want_ to wait.

Those giant hands are kneading his ass now, unashamedly, rolling him down and against the hardness hidden beneath his jumpsuit. Zeb doesn't ask if Kallus wants it. He already knows. And while he might be smug about it, after, in the moment there is no push for anything more than what Kallus gives him.

But Kallus knows.

Garazeb _wants_ , too.

He wants Kallus on top. Wants to see his man take his pleasure. Wants to see him reduced to dilated pupils and wanton rutting. Wants to see him own his part in this joining, in what lies between them. Wants to take from him in return. Wants to give Kallus everything.

And it's that he knows, that Kallus knows what Garazeb wants, that's what makes him cry out, makes him throw his head back and moan, makes Zeb jerk hard and claw at the small of his back in an unfathomable feedback loop.

"Now," Kallus hears himself say, as though he's lighting a fuse. "I need you now."

There is a rumble that starts from his lover's chest. Primal and predatory and unmistakable. "Now?" He echoes, thrusting up, the pressure so good despite the clothing between them.

Kallus cries out again, nodding as he licks his way into his Lasat's mouth. They kiss like it's a fight but pull away gently like a dance. Gentle and smooth. Tentative.

 _Anticipating_. 

Someday, Kallus will be alright with begging for this. He knows he will, like he knows he'll need sleep come the evening. 

But for now, Zeb is merciful and understanding.

He curses in a language Kallus doesn't know, strange, guttural syllables strung between tongue and teeth and fangs, rolling them gently. "Okay?"

When Kallus doesn't trust himself to speak, Zeb waits. A hand traces the side of his face, gently raking through blonde hair. Kallus turns his face into the touch, into that hand and breathes, unbearably hot and ready for it. "Okay," He says, finally, hands going to his belt while Zeb pulls back to strip his own suit away.

Only when he's done, has kicked off boots and shimmied his pants down, staring up at the ceiling with heaving breaths, impatient and vulnerable, does Zeb descend upon him, pulling him up into a firm grip and kissing him with the same desperation he feels blooming in his chest. Zeb doesn't hold back, doesn't pretend not to feel what he's feeling.

And Zeb feels, so, so, deeply.

He feels every one of Kallus's gasps and moans as if he's feeling that same pleasure for himself, as if the careful act of preparing his lover for what's to come is more important than the act himself. He feels that tension, that need and builds it up, as easy as breathing.

And when the moment comes, when Kallus feels his body go pliant and loose, free from the puppet-strings of an overthinking mind, Zeb always, always smiles. Proud, always, of this achievement, of pulling Kallus with him into this and only this moment.

Kallus is _tactile_.

His fingers brush up and under Zeb's chin, down broad shoulders and across Zeb's chest, and down, further, further, to hold onto his hips, to let himself adjust the angle until the view behind their eyelids burns into starlines. He kneads at taut flesh and groans as Zeb responds in kind.

Kallus is _impatient._

He loops his arms around Zeb's neck and pulls their chests flush, carefully positioning his legs and knees and rubbing against Zeb's face, cheek-to-cheek. He rises to the stilling of breath, and falls to their mutual demise. Zeb clutches him tightly, claws all but dug into his ass, the meat of his hands against Kallus's thighs.

There is nothing slow about it, about friction and hips slapping, about the way they press their foreheads together and breathe hard, pain and pleasure, hard grips, brutal rhythm and soft eyes. If this is worship, Zeb is the altar Kallus kneels at, pouring his devotion out until there is nothing left but the two of them intertwined.

Kallus is _encouraging._

Zeb gasps, and it's only at the end, only when the circle is complete and Kallus is both too far gone and yet back again that Kallus knows he must be the one to pay the gesture back in kind.

"Let go," He says, almost a purr to velvet-soft, expressive ears. "I want you to."

Only then does Kallus ever truly see that beast coiled inside his lover. The one who wants and knows and takes, who bears his fangs and nips at his love's neck and snakes a hand between them, chest rattling with a growl that wants to be a roar. 

Kallus wraps a hand over those larger fingers curled around him and they move together while he shifts, mouth hanging open, until one final squeeze of their combined digits signals for them to pull away. He grinds down, hard, clenching into the movement, the rolling up-up-up of Zeb sitting up, holding him, and then Zeb is whining, a beautiful, broken sound and Kallus moves.

He pushes his lover back against the bed, pressing his shoulders down against the mattress not in submission but mutual surrender. 

It is the finest point of balance that sends them toppling over the edge. They fall together, as with everything else. Hands clutching each other close, panting breaths as if they share the same set of lungs. Eyes, always on each other. 

Hearts, forever more, beating as one.


End file.
